


Getting Your Own Back

by Rehfan



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anger, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Molly gets ANGRY, Season 4 aftermath, Self-Esteem, self discovery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 05:42:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10074791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rehfan/pseuds/Rehfan
Summary: Molly is left confused and shaking after her phone call with Sherlock. He saved her life, but- she wasn't going to let him off the hook that easily.“John,” she said. “I know that he’s been through it and his flat has been decimated, but he owes me an apology.” She paced in her living room.“Yeah,” John sighed on the other end of the line. “You’re right. He does. But in his defense-”“NO! Don’t you dare defend him. Not this time. If anyone’s going to put up a defense, let him do it himself!” she said.





	

He disconnected as soon as she said the words he begged her to say. She remembered crumpling to the floor and becoming a hateful sobbing mess for an hour or more. She didn’t remember falling asleep.

  
Sheer fucking exhaustion, she mentally concluded, as she scraped herself up off the tile floor and braced herself on the counter. Her tea had gone cold.

  
“Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes,” she muttered as she poured it out into the sink.

  
It was a puzzle that her brain had trouble putting together. Why had he called her? What was the reason she had to say those specific words? And THOSE words! She took a deep cleansing breath before the sadness could well up in her again. There was no excuse for the way he treated her. But it was always the way he had treated her, why should she expect any different from him? And why should she expect any explanation?

  
John. She would call John. He would kill him for her, if need be.

  
She picked up her phone and dialed. Voice mail. That was strange. She didn’t think he was working today. She dialed again and then stopped. Of course. He was with him. Because he’s John ‘I’m addicted to Sherlock Holmes’ Watson. The bastard.

  
Fine. She’d wait. She’d wait until John was free and then she’d call him and tell him that under no uncertain circumstances should he refuse to help her. He would arrange for Sherlock to come to her. And then she’d give him the hiding of his life.

  
She breathed through her anger, closing her eyes and embracing the rage like a lover. This would be the last time he used her again. Toyed with her emotions. Worked an angle to get what he wanted from her. She was past falling for his compliments any more.

  
She couldn’t help but notice the tiny voice in the back of her mind reminding her of all the times before that she had sworn the same thing.

  
She passed on tea and went straight for the wine. After her first glass, she realized that she hadn’t eaten. For a fraction of a second she considered making herself a sandwich… “Fuck it,” she told the wine. “Fuck it and fuck him.” She poured another glass twice the size of the last and turned on the telly.

 

~080~

 

“John,” she said. “I know that he’s been through it and his flat has been decimated, but he owes me an apology.” She paced in her living room.

  
“Yeah,” John sighed on the other end of the line. “You’re right. He does. But in his defense-”

“NO! Don’t you dare defend him. Not this time. If anyone’s going to put up a defense, let him do it himself!” she said.

  
“Alright, alright,” he said, his voice adapting itself for eliciting calm.

  
Molly was having none of it. “Don’t use your soothing doctor voice with me, John Watson. Just get him here double quick.”

  
She missed flip phones. She missed land line phones too. You could slap them shut or slam them down whenever you were frustrated with the voice at the other end. Smart phones were useless when you were angry. You couldn’t even hurl them across the room without having to pay gobs for another one. Molly did the only thing she could: she pressed the disconnect, hard. It wasn’t satisfying at all.

  
She sat heavily on her sofa and tried to decide what to say to tall, dark, and clueless. The word ‘heartless’ came to mind. The word ‘thoughtless’ was also right there. In the end, she decided on a word that would sum up her feelings concisely and make Sherlock Holmes very aware of the damaged he’d caused: ‘cruel’.

  
She had used it before. It was a Christmas long ago when he had deduced her present. She had gone through all that trouble. And expense. And he tore it to pieces inside of ten seconds. Everyone else was kind about it, but not him. No. Never him. He was too too awful. And she remembered still making excuses for him: he’s not socially adept; he’s awkward around women; he was uncomfortable seeing her done up like that; it was all a defense mechanism so he could get control of the situation back; he was just lost and feeling powerless. Only it was her who wound up powerless and awkward and clumsy and distraught.

  
“And no one likes that, do they, Barnaby?” she said to her ginger cat who had come up for a snuggle. “No one likes feeling a fool - especially in their own home. No one likes to be treated poorly by friends.”

Friends. “You’re my friend,” he had said. But she didn’t feel like his friend. Especially not now, curled up, her knees to her chest with Barnaby in between purring like he didn’t know his mistress’s heart was broken - again.

  
“That man,” she whispered. “That man will be the death of me. And I’m stupid enough to let it happen! That’s the unholy curse of it all! I’m really that bloody stupid!” Tears streamed down her cheeks for a few moments before her furry companion looked at her earnestly.

  
She waited a moment and said: “This is the part where you become capable of speech and tell me that everything’s going to be alright and not to worry and would I please open a fresh tin of tuna?”  
Barnaby meowed, unimpressed.

  
“Oh fine, alright,” she sighed and got up to open the tin.

 

~080~

 

She knew she had to be strong. She knew that she would be firm with him when she saw him next. She had to be. Otherwise, he’d come over her like a steamroller and move along just as quickly as he arrived, leaving her feeling even more hollowed out than before. She paced and practiced what she would say. She had turns of phrase that she was really chuffed about, that would devastate Sherlock when she cornered him. But when Sherlock swept into her little flat, she didn’t realize that she would feel quite that angry. So angry, in fact, she couldn’t speak at all.

  
She studied him. His face (that face!) that went from wary to curious, from curious to put-out, and then, gradually, slowly, from put-out to mortified. Soon he stood stock-still and silent in her living room, utterly baffled at her lack of expression.

  
“M-Molly?” he asked.

  
She paused. She didn’t know what she was going to say after all. All those carefully rehearsed words seemed so unimportant now. She opened her mouth and the simplest story poured forth:  
“I still recall the first day I met you, Sherlock Holmes. I remember I had a brown blouse on under my labcoat. You said it flattered my eyes. You only said that so I’d cooperate with you, give you a peek at the corpse. It was your first lie to me, Sherlock. The first lie in a long long list of them that you would tell me in order to manipulate me into doing what you needed me to do.”

  
“It was a compliment-” he started. Molly held up a hand to cut him off.

  
“A compliment is something you say to someone without thinking of yourself, Sherlock. You don’t pay a person a compliment in order to manipulate them. That’s what cruel people do.”

  
And there it was: the word that summed up Sherlock completely. Cruel. She felt the tears begin to well in her eyes but she took a deep breath to push them back. She saw Sherlock swallow hard and his mouth form a thin line.

  
“You give compliments,” she continued, “when you want to be kind. Genuinely kind. For no other reason than kindness itself.

  
“But you are not kind to me, Sherlock. You never have been. Not when there was something that you needed or wanted from me. And this last… indignity…” The tears were back and she took a moment to breathe and wait for them to fall away again. This wouldn’t work if she were a sobbing mess.

  
“You said we were friends,” she said, staring at him hard. “I’d say your definition of friendship needs some help, Sherlock. Friends don’t ring each other up and ask for- for things like that. When they know full good and well that- there are real, deep feelings-”

  
Hot tears streamed down her face. She felt them go. She didn’t wipe them away. Let him see, she thought. Let him see what he’s done to me. Fuck looking pretty. Fuck looking any way at all except for how I feel. This is his fault. He needs to see.

  
“Do you ever feel anything, Sherlock?” she said. “Do you ever feel sad or happy or anything at all? Do you ever look at anyone an see the person inside instead of a collection of clues to follow? Are you capable of that?”

  
She was finally silent enough to allow him to speak.

  
“I feel things, Molly,” he said softly. She scoffed. “No, I do. It’s just that… emotions are… a distraction to my work and-”

  
“And the work is everything,” she added. “The work is all there is for you because to hell with the rest of the world. To hell with anyone but Sherlock bloody Holmes and his need to be the best and correct at everything and…” Sobs wracked her, but she was determined. As Sherlock stepped toward her she backed off with a hand out. “Don’t you dare, Mr. Holmes. You don’t get to touch me. You get to stand there and get your heart torn out just like you did to me.

  
“The trouble is, I don’t think you actually have a heart so I really don’t know how to hurt you like you hurt me. Nothing I can say to you would make any difference. I can only hope that you seeing me this distraught over you crushing me into a thousand pieces stays with you for the rest of your days, you selfish prick! You are not my friend. Friends don’t do this to one another - break each other apart time and time and time again just because they can - just because it’s convenient for them - just because it serves their purpose!”

  
“I did it to save your life!”

  
“I DON’T CARE!”

They stared at one another: he incredulous, she on fire with her anger, hurt, and frustration.

  
She swiped the back of her hand across her nose. “I don’t care what you were trying to do. I really really don’t, Sherlock. You had no right - no right.” She fell to her knees sobbing for an awkward moment as Sherlock stared down at her, lost. She stared off at a spot in the carpet, her mind blank and her body exhausted. His feet moved past her swiftly and she thought the next sound she was going to hear was the closing of her front door as he made his escape. But she was wrong. A tinkling of glasses, liquid pouring… then a glass was hovering near her face. Red wine. He was attempting to solve her like she was one of his puzzles. Something in the bubbles of the wine made her so tired.

  
She took the glass, turning her face up toward him. There was a crinkle line of concern on his face and he wanted to say something, but she knew he was at a loss.

  
“I don’t need you, you know,” she heard herself saying. “I don’t need you to pour me a glass of wine to make me feel better.”

  
He sat in her overstuffed chair slowly, watching her carefully as her mind churned on the idea of ‘need’. “As it comes to me,” she said slowly after her first sip, “I don’t really need you for much of anything.” She regarded him with curiosity. “You have nothing that I want save the one thing you’re incapable of giving me.” He blinked at her in silence. “And so many people see you as this paragon of an independent spirit, don’t they? They look at you, Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, wearer of silly hats and catcher of criminals, and they see someone who thumbs his nose at authority and walks through walls and- and- and- and someone who doesn’t need anyone for anything.”

  
She smiled knowingly at him and said: “But it’s not true.”

  
“And here I sit,” she went on. “Here I sit, Molly Hooper, medical examiner, solver of mysteries, scientist, pursuer of truths, just the same as you! Just the same! And here I sit- and I don’t need you. You need me! You need me constantly! ‘Molly, I need this.’ ‘Molly, can you do me a favor for that.’ And I go along because I’m too bloody polite to tell you to fuck off and you know just how to charm me when I’m not in the mood to help and I always came through for you, didn’t I?”

  
“Yes, Molly. You always did,” he said, softly, marveling at her.

  
“And I never need you. I find solutions and solve mysteries and I do it all without the help of Sherlock bloody Holmes! I manage a good living at a job I love doing the same damn thing you do - oh well perhaps you have more flash and all, getting your name in the paper and whatnot - but I still solve mysteries! You can’t argue that, Sherlock. And I stand alone doing it for sometimes twelve, thirteen, fourteen hours a day and no complaint! And NO help from Sherlock bloody HOLMES!”

  
She got to her feet and took another gulp from the glass. “I don’t need your help with my life, Sherlock, just like I don’t need to hear you say that you love me. I’m glad I asked you to say it to me first, don’t misunderstand - that was me getting a little of my own back before you made me rip out my heart for you - but I don’t NEED it, do you hear? I don’t need you, Sherlock fucking bloody Holmes. And I never will. And I’m just as good. And I’m better! Because I don’t use my mates up and spit them out when I’m done with them because all they are to me is some kind of tool to use to open a door or solve a crime. I’d NEVER do that to my friends because I know what it is to be a friend. A REAL friend who asks for nothing back.”

  
“Yes,” whispered Sherlock, “that is friendship.”

  
“It is! Yes it is! And I am a friend to you, Sherlock Holmes, but you! You aren’t a friend. Not a real one. Not at all.”

  
“But… I do love you, Molly.”

  
“What?”

  
Sheepish, he said it again: “I do love you. And I am sorry. And I was trying to do something selfless at the time, but I see that I’ve used you and embarrassed you and been completely hateful to you and I am so very sorry, Molly Hooper.”

  
“You- love me?” Her lungs forgot how to breathe.

  
“Not romantically, no,” he said. A wave of shame fell over her.

  
“But you…” he went on, “who you are and how much you give and how much you do for me, that does inspire what I’d call love. Love and admiration and eternal gratitude.”

  
“Are you making fun of me again?” She could feel alarm rising in her throat.

  
“No!” His eyes were earnest and she didn’t know how to believe him. “I wouldn’t dare - not now - admittedly, at one time… but not now. Not here in this moment. I promise you. I swear on all I hold dear.”

  
“I don’t need your love or your admiration, Sherlock Holmes.” She let her chin jut out at him.

  
He smiled softly at her, sincerity coming from every pore. “I know. But you have it anyway.”

  
Taking a breath, she sipped at her glass again. She wasn’t going to be taken down this road. Not after what she just finished telling him. She needed to right this ship. “Right. So. I’ve said what I’ve needed to. You can bloody-well bugger off now.” She was relieved that she sounded strong; she wasn’t entirely sure she was.

  
Sherlock stood very closely to her and bent his head down, a curly forelock brushing her forehead. “I will be a better friend to you, Molly. I will dedicate myself to a study of your friendship to me and others and learn from it. You are the best example of how I can be better to you. I hope you will let me learn.”

  
“Yes. Well. Alright then,” she said. His face was so close to hers but she couldn’t let him steer her off course, make her lose her momentum. “But the next time you tell me you love me, Sherlock, it better be sincere and full of romantic love, do you understand me?”

  
“Yes, Molly.”

  
“It is not a word to be bandied about. I mean it. I know my own mind. I’m not a child.”

  
“Yes, Molly.”

  
“Good. Now get out. I’m sure I’ll hear from you before long because God knows you’ll need something from me.”

  
Her head still spun with the smell his cologne as her front door closed behind him. Surprisingly, red wine helps get rid of the spin from a good cologne.

 

~080~

 

When the plant arrived the next day, she was startled; she hadn’t expected a gift. When she read the card, she was tickled; he hadn’t needed to do that. And when she looked and saw that the plant was catnip - as non-romantic plants go, it was right up there - she laughed. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, wearer of silly hats, catcher of criminals - and Molly Hooper’s friend.

She smiled. She could live with that.


End file.
